


fools on parade (cavort and carry on)

by lilyjpotter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi, Wild Child (2008) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 21:19:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15782325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyjpotter/pseuds/lilyjpotter
Summary: a wild child au in which lily is just as if not more dreamy than alex pettyfer





	fools on parade (cavort and carry on)

**_i. there’s absolutely nothing for us here_ **

**_[…] it’s better than a reputation_ **

**_as a miserable little tyke_ **

He arrives at boarding school a week after he drives his Mum’s new boyfriend’s Harley Davidson into the Thames.

He didn’t plan on being there. It’s why he refuses to get out of the car.

A kindly, rotund woman in a grey pantsuit knocks on the door of the back seat; he rolls down the window and she smiles in at him. 

“Bags are in the boot,” he says, not looking at her.

“That’s charming, Mr. Potter,” she tells him, “but I’m not a footman. My name’s Mrs. Evans, I’m your headmistress here at Abbey Mount.”

“Look,” he starts, turning to face her, “I—”

She stops him. “Listen to me, Mr. Potter. I find that negotiation is rather like a nightclub; not something I tend to enter into. Now,” she opens the door, “come along.” 

He groans and ducks out of the car, Armani suit getting drizzle on it already without an umbrella, dress shoes pressing into the mud, little wells of silt gathering around his feet.

Mrs. Evans gestures a tall, dark-haired handsome boy over, who nears, rubbing his lips.

“James,” the headmistress says, “this is Sirius. He’ll be your Big Brother at Abbey Mount.”

Sirius, eyes coasting over James, smiles kindly at Mrs. Evans, who says to James, “You’ll soon settle in,” and pats Sirius on the arm. “Try to keep him out of trouble,” she adds, and Sirius winks at her.

Once she’s across the courtyard, Sirius pulls out a cigarette. “How d’you do?” he asks, not looking at James, perfunctory and aloof.

James casts him a foul look. “I don’t need a brother.”

He laughs, haughtily. “Don’t worry, mate, you’re not exactly my type, either.” He takes a drag of the cigarette, blows the smoke in James’s face, who buckles the urge to hit him.

“It’s just school lingo,” Sirius elaborates off of James’s furious look, “I couldn’t give two shits who you hang out with. See ya,” he says, sticking a hand in his pocket, sauntering across the grass.

“Saddle up, lads, we’ve got ourselves a bronco,” Sirius says, reaching the boys. Remus, reading the paper, Frank and Peter peer around Sirius to get a better look. 

“Since when,” Remus starts, rustling the paper, “do you give a flying fuck about the new kids?”

“Yeah,” Frank agrees, grinning, “last time I checked you weren’t exactly handing out sweets to the first years.”

Sirius ignores Frank’s comment. “I don’t,” he says, “but Evans said that if I do this as a favour to her Mum, she’ll set me up with one of her fit mates.”

“Poor girl,” commiserates Frank. Sirius kicks him.

* * *

A greasy, lank-haired boy nears James, who has to stop himself from flinching.

“Snape,” he says, sticking his hand out. “Head Boy.”

James can’t stop himself from laughing. “You?” he says, pressing his height advantage. “I didn’t realise they were letting wet rags into the student council. Nice that they’re letting them try out.”

The boy looks furious. “You shake the hand of the Head Boy,” he spits, “ _out of respect._ ”

James just smiles at him. “When you’ve earned my respect, mate, then I’ll shake your greasy little rat paw.”

“I’m sorry?” Snape growls.

“Apology accepted.”

The Head Boy glares, livid, before stalking away.

And then James’s Mum is out of the car, walking over to him.

He can tell she’s trying not to cry. It guts him, more than the look she gave him when they dragged him out of the Thames, swearing and soaked, a policeman clutching each of his forearms, him screaming at his Mum, asking if she even remembers his Dad, how she could do this to him, that it’s all her fault.

He’s leaning against the shiny, black car and look at that, he’s made his Mum cry. She’s walking over to him and he’s made her cry. She’s looking up at him and he’s made her cry.

“I’ll come get you at the end of the semester, sweetheart,” she tells him. Even at 17 he’s already several heads taller than her.

He feels like shit, groggy limbs like the bloated bodies he’s seen pulled out of that goddamn river, keeps on telling himself that he’s done the right thing. 

He doesn’t say anything. Then, quietly, “I hope the engine blows up. And I hope you get stranded on the side of the road with no cell reception next to a field full of cow shit.”

She sighs. “I wish I didn’t have to leave you.”

His head snaps up. “Then don’t,” he says. “Take me back to London and dump your wanker of a boyfriend and everything can go back to how it was.” _Bring Dad back_ , he wants to say. _Bring Dad back and everything will go back to normal. Do the impossible. Try, for me._  

She shakes her head, reaches up even when he tries to shrug out of her grasp, grabs his face and presses kisses to his cheeks, then gets in the car and drives away.

* * *

Up in the dorm, there’s brash, clamorous music playing, the kind that bruises your brain, reminds him of parties with expensive champagne and broken glass windows. He shoves the door open with his shoulder, is met with the sight of beds covered in chocolate wrappers, piles of printed t-shirts, jeans, shoeboxes.

“Oi,” he says. Four heads turn to look at him; Sirius, he recognises—sitting on the windowsill, smirking his ass off—and the others, he doesn’t.

“This is my room,” he tells them, petulant. The looks on their faces make him feel like he knows he sounds—five years old with grubby fingers, demanding more dessert. It’s not enough to make him stop, though. 

“You need to leave,” he adds, when they don’t move.

Sirius laughs first, head thrown back, mirth coming in sharp, barking peals from the back of his throat. The others continue; tall, knife-like boy slumped against his headboard, snickering into a French textbook; broad-shouldered poster-boy for good manners, arms crossed over his chest; small, chubby boy, twitchy and giggling nervously.

“Wow,” James says, glaring, “communal.”

“Yeah, well, it’s bed number five or you can sleep on the roof,” says the boy hunched on the bed, not looking up. “Your choice.”

He groans, goes and sits on his bed.

“I’m Frank, by the way,” says the nice-looking one, heart grin. “That’s Remus,” he gestures to the boy on the bed, “and that’s Peter,” he says, and the chubby boy waves.

“Charming,” James says, not meaning it.

Remus, reaching over to his bedside table, fishes a key out of his pocket and unlocks the door, grabbing a _Twirl_.

“You lock away your chocolate?” James asks, unable to help himself.

“They’re animals,” he says, gesturing to the other boys and still not bothering to glance James’s way. 

“Certainly look like it,” James mumbles.

“You want one?” Peter asks nervously. “Remus doesn’t share, but I’ve got a few _Wagon Wheels_ in my bag. Bit melted, though.”

“You joking?” James asks. “Do you know how much fat is in those things?” 

The boy blinks at him.

“A lot,” James supplies.

“What,” Remus says, “a _fucking_ revelation. I had no idea.”

James rolls his eyes, grabs his phone, tries to get a bar of signal so he can book a train ticket out of here.

“The fuck is that?” Sirius asks.

“None of your _fucking_ business,” James says, moving over to the window.

“iPhone,” Remus answers.

“Good luck with that, mate,” Frank tells James, “there are only two hotspots that work around here.”

“Then where are they?” James snaps.

“Doesn’t matter,” Remus says, “only allowed mobiles on weekends.” He takes a bit of _Twirl_.

“Don’t give a fuck,” James says.

Sirius, who has taken out a newspaper and is currently filling in the daily crossword, says, “Listen, dickweed. This isn’t London.”

James lets the phone fall to his side. “What,” he says, “a _fucking_ revelation. I had no idea.”

* * *

The second they enter the dining hall, about 50 kids call out to Sirius, and he pauses by their table, good-naturedly ruffling the hair of the boy nearest them.

“What are you, like, Prom King, or something?” James scoffs.

“He’s got a disease,” Remus explains, reading the paper, “You’re actually really lucky you’ll never fucking have it, it’s called popularity.” 

Frank snorts. James rolls his eyes, scrapes back his chair, sits down.

“Get the fuck up,” Sirius says. “We’ve got to wait for Mrs. Evans and the prefects.”

“Fuck that,” James says.

A look is cast between Remus and Sirius before the latter catches James by the arm and yanks him out of the chair, holding him firmly so he can hiss in his ear.

“Don’t _ever_ pull that shit again,” Sirius says.

James reels back, about to punch him. “I’m calling my lawyer,” he tells him.

“What with?” Remus asks. James glares at him.

A hush falls over the room, the kind of abnormal quiet like someone’s unplugged a radio, gentle static humming over the rows of boys heads.

“Oi,” Frank calls out, “Lily!” He waves.

A pretty girl, long hair all red like a gaping mouth, walks in, catches Frank’s eye, smiles at them, winks at Remus, stands waiting at the table. 

Remus, still reading the paper says, “Queue Snape in 3… 2… 1…”

The greasy Head Boy wanders over, touches the girl’s elbow, and she turns to give him a very brief smile.

Mrs. Evans calls for attention, tells everyone to sit down. James slumps in his chair, kicks Sirius under the table, who kicks him back. 

“Who’s that?” James asks, gesturing to the girl. He’s trying to be inconspicuous, to ignore the bow of her shoulders, blue ribbon in her hair.

Remus smirks, folding the newspaper away.

“She’s Mrs. Evans’ daughter,” Frank explains, “fittest girl anyone’s ever seen but won’t go out with any of us since she got caught playing mummies and daddies with Snape—” James chokes on his own spit, “—in the third grade. Big scandal. Not that they’re together now, though—I mean, look at him.”

James says, “She must’ve had to get a rabies shot or something.”

Frank laughs, then, all serious, says, “No. Fraternising is forbidden.”

“Shame,” Sirius quips, “I think he was just about to ask her to marry him.”

* * *

Snape corners him in the hallway.

“We meet again,” he says, “How sublime.”

James rolls his eyes. Sirius snickers, Remus coughs into a fist.

Snape glares at them. “Learn the rules,” he says, looking at James. 

“This going to take long?” James asks.

Snape ignores this. “There’s a hierarchy here. Teachers, prefects, scholars, dogs, vermin. I think it’s abundantly clear where you fit in.”

“Jeez,” James says pityingly, “you may be greasy and unsightly mate, but even I’d say calling yourself ‘vermin’ is going a bit too far.” 

* * *

They’re up in the dorm. James is on his bed, throwing a tennis ball in the air and catching it again. Frank and Remus are playing cards. Remus is cutting Sirius’s hair.

“How many girls have you shagged?” Sirius asks James, out of the blue.

He stops throwing the ball. “The fuck do you want to know that for?”

Sirius just raises an eyebrow. Remus pauses, the scissors hovering above Sirius’s head.

James sighs. “Eight,” he says, going back to throwing the ball.

Remus takes a chunk out of Sirius’s hair.

“What the _fuck_ , Lupin!” Sirius yelps, jumping out of the chair and clutching his scalp.

Remus just shrugs, holding the scissors. “Sorry, mate, it was an accident,” he says, sounding as though it definitely wasn’t.

Sirius flops down on his bed, hand over his eyes. “If this stops me from getting with Lily’s fit mate at the social, I will fucking maim you,” he tells Remus. 

“Reckon hair is the least of your worries, mate,” James chimes in. 

“I have to agree with that,” Frank says.

Sirius throws Remus’s French textbook across the room when the housemaster knocks on the door so they get into bed. 

“You’re buying me a new one,” Remus tells Sirius, getting up to switch the lights off. 

“Not likely,” says Sirius, getting underneath the covers. The three others follow suit. 

James, dragging out his laptop, says, “Shit, no Wi-Fi either? This place is medieval.”

“Internet is only allowed in the computer room,” Remus mumbles.

“Great,” James says, jumping up to turn on the lights.

“We aren’t allowed out of bed after lights out,” Frank says.

James turns the lights on. “Look,” he says, “they’re not out.”

“Turn those off or I will fucking murder you in your sleep,” Sirius growls.

“A tempting offer, Black, but I think I’ll take my chances,” James says, stealing out the door and closing it behind him.

 

 

 

**_ii. she swam out of tonight's phantasm_ **

He emails Mulciber the second he’s in the computer room, and is halfway through telling him about what pussies his roommates are when someone sneaks past the window.

After shutting the computer down, he walks out into the hallway, sees Remus retreating down the corridor. He follows him down, through the Cook’s sitting room and into the kitchens, where Remus unlocks the walk-in freezer.

James, thinking that this is where Remus stores the dead bodies of people he’s murdered, is about to call the police, but then Remus grabs the nearest tub and starts digging into it with a plastic spoon. It’s ice-cream.

“The _fuck_ ,” James breathes.

Before Remus sees him, he sneaks out of the kitchen, back up the main staircase and onto the landing of his dorm.

And that’s when the fire alarm goes off. 

“Fucking _hell_ ,” he whispers. The hallway is slowly filling with sleepy-eyed boys in pyjamas, hair-ruffling, ass-scratching, mumbling about a fire practice.

James legs it to the nearest window, hauls himself out, and it’s only once he’s on the roof, slate tiles covered in grime and lichen, that he realises he has no idea where to go.

He creeps along trellises, up a few ladders and slants of muck-covered roofing, until he reaches another window.

It’s closed.

He manages to jimmy the lock on the first try, folds his long, coltish legs through the frame, bangs his head.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers.

“Who’s there?”

He pauses. _Shit_. It’s a bathroom. Obnoxiously pink tiles. Bath with an opaque shower curtain in the corner. Lights on. A voice that definitely belongs to the headmistress’s daughter behind the plastic shower curtain. 

“James,” he answers belatedly, swallows.

Water splashes. “Last name?”

“Potter. James Potter, miss.”

“Well, Jim—”

“James.”

“—this is a fire practice.”

“Yeah, I, uh—I got that, thanks.” 

A sigh. More water. Plastic curtain rustling.

“I’m new here,” he tells her, piss-poor last-ditch attempt. She’s naked behind that curtain. The fire alarm is still going.

Tinkling laugh. The back of his neck goes cold; window’s still open.

“Yes,” she says, “that’s obvious.”

“OK,” he replies, “where do I go?” _Go? What is he talking about? What he actually wants to do is sit down on the bone-cold tiles and listen to her talk forever._

Another sigh. “Out the door, down the hall, turn right, down the staircase.”

He manages to get his legs to start moving, despite wanting to stay here. “Run towards the bright orange… flicker-thingy, right?”

Another laugh. “Yes,” she says, “and, Potter?” 

He pauses, hand on the doorknob. “Yep.”

“Try _not_ to get caught.” 

“Excellent point,” he says. “Miss,” he adds, as an afterthought.

He leaves, body parts not where they should be, brain in his pants, stomach in his ass and heart in his mouth.

* * *

It’s P.E the next day, and when he gets dressed in the freezing cold changing rooms he’s thinking about tiles and shower curtains and girls who call him by names that aren’t his.

He feels himself evaporate when he gets outside and sees the sports equipment.

“You play cricket here?” he asks Sirius quietly, who stares at him.

“What, you got an aversion to sport or something?” he asks, slamming down his helmet and jogging out to the pitch, pads hitting his knees.

“Something like that,” James mumbles, running after him to ask the coach if he can sit this one out.

“What’s the matter, Potter?” the coach queries.

“Laryngitis,” he deadpans. He does not have laryngitis. He knows this. Everyone knows this. 

“Fine,” the coach says, giving him an out. “Bring a note next time.” 

“Sure thing,” he says.

He watches Sirius bat against Snape, who has the weakest bowling arm he’s ever seen, and once it’s Remus’s turn to bowl, James mumbles, “Pathetic,” as Snape walks past him.

He scoffs. “You think you could do better?”

James smiles. “I could kick your ass even if I had no limbs and a blindfold on, mate.”

“ _This_ ,” Snape sneers, “I’d _love_ to see.”

James takes the ball from Snape, who kits up, and once they’re out on the field, Frank behind the wickets, James bowls, gets Snape out on the first try.

“Lucky shot,” Snape says to James, and then he calls him a pussy.

Next thing, James is on top of Snape, dragging off his helmet, punching the shit out of him, when tyres crunch on the gravel drive.

“Oi!” Evans calls, idling on her bicycle, hanging onto a straw hat. “Shouldn’t you guys be covered in oil for that?”

Snape pushes James—struck dumb, fist still raised—off him, gets up first, tries to act like he isn’t covered in mud and grass and blood. “Good morning, Lily,” he says, weakly, “nice bike.”

James, rolling his eyes, gets to his feet. Lily smiles at Snape, nods, then says, “Hello, Jim.”

His eyes snap up. “Hi—” he starts, floored, then, “ _Hey!”_

She trills the bike bell once and pedals off, before either of them can say a word.

“Jesus, could you be any more desperate to get into her pants?” James says to Snape, who glares at him.

“I—I don’t—”

“I reckon she’s a bit out of your league, mate. On account of the fact that she’s gorgeous and you’re, y’know, hideous to look at.”

“Shut your mouth, Potter.” 

“Don’t try to hide it, mate. Pretty sure she could see your boner from here, not an easy feat as I’m guessing it’s not much bigger than a thimble. Anyway, she wasn’t interested.”

Snape stalks off without another word. James stares at the cloud of dust created by Lily's departure.

* * *

He’s sitting on the windowsill when Remus trundles into the dorm, book under arm, and grabs a chocolate bar from his bedside table. 

“For the tenth fucking time,” he says to James, “you need to make your bed.”

When he doesn’t, Remus snaps, “Jesus fucking Christ, it’s not that fucking hard. Pick up the fucking duvet, put it down.”

Eventually he gets up, and Remus stands there for a moment, watching him struggle, until he says, quietly, “Sit down, mate. I’ll do it.”

“Thanks,” James tells him, sits down on the bed once Remus is done.

“You alright?” Remus asks.

“Why d’you care? You think I’m a total asshole.”

“Mate.” Remus rubs his cheek, sits down next to him. “Just because you act like a shithead doesn’t necessarily mean that you are one.” 

There’s a silence. Remus fills it by reaching for the photo on James’s desk.

“Is this you?”

It’s not. It’s his Dad. He shakes his head.

“Your Dad, then? God, you look exactly alike.”

Still nothing. There’s an achy lump forming in James’s throat, which usually serves as a prelude to him crying.

“Is he going to come and visit?”

“No,” James says, eventually. “No, he’s not.”

It takes Remus a few seconds. Most people take longer than that. It took the lady at the corner shop he used to go to with his Dad every Wednesday fifteen minutes of him browsing alone before she twigged.

“Oh,” Remus says, softly. “Oh, I, um—James, I’m really sorry.” 

He doesn’t say it’s OK. It’s not.

“Look,” Remus says, changing tac, “are you serious about getting out of here?”

“Yeah,” James says.

“Then you’re going to have to get yourself expelled.” 

“OK," he says, sitting up.

“‘Anybody disporting themselves in an improper manner will be proposed for expulsion before the Honour Court,’” says Remus, quoting from what, James assumes, is the school’s official rule book.

“Shit,” James says, “have you got all the school rules memorised or something?”

“I read the rules before I break them, mate. Easier to find loopholes that way.”

“So, what is this ‘Honour Court’ thing?”

“It’s like a trial, in front of the whole school; peers, teachers, Head Boy—” James scoffs, “—and Mrs. Evans. But it hardly ever happens. So if you want to do this, you have to go full Monty.”

James has an image of his Dad, smiling on summer holiday, brown in the sun, smiling at him.

“Alright,” he tells Remus, “what did you have in mind?”

* * *

“Sirius,” Remus is saying, “you have to _stop_ asking the first years for cigarettes.”

They’re up in the French classroom, waiting for the teacher, who is ten minutes late. James is sitting in his chair, feet on the desk.

“What?” Sirius asks. “Got to cover all bases, Lupin.”

“They’re 11,” Frank says, “I doubt they’d have any ciggies.”

“Pussies,” Sirius mutters. “I was selling contraband when I was 11.” 

“Which is precisely why I don’t think you should be trying to influence them,” Remus quips. 

“Fuck you, Lupin. I’m a great role model. Oh, yeah,” he adds to James, “we’ve decided to help you get out of here.”

“Sorry?” James asks, feet sliding off the desk.

“I mean, I didn’t want to, but Remus threatened to shave my head in my sleep if I didn’t, so, yeah. We’ll help you.”

“We all really want you to get kicked out,” Peter tries, sympathetically, and Frank punches him.

“Great,” James says, sarcastic.

“Don’t mention it,” Sirius tells him. “So, Lupin, what’s the plan?”

* * *

Remus, lying in bed, has an epiphany.

He’s busy shaking James awake while Sirius tells them to shut the fuck up.

“James!” Remus whisper-hisses, “I’ve got it! Guys, you have to hear this!”

“It better be fucking good, Lupin,” Sirius grumbles, rolling out of bed and onto the floor.

“James,” Remus says, “you have to snog Evans.”

“Not into older women, thanks,” James tells him, rolling over to go back to sleep.

“No, not the headmistress, dickhead,” Frank says, catching on. “He’s talking about Lily.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” Sirius says from the floor.

“That,” James says, ignoring Sirius and sitting bolt upright, “is a fucking excellent idea.”

* * *

The plan is this: James is going to hook up with Evans at the school social.

“We need suits,” James states, as they’re shaving in the bathroom, about to go into town. Pete has already nicked himself twice. “Are there any good tailors in town?”

“There’s only one shop in town,” Remus tells him. “It’s a Red Cross.” 

James pauses, the blade under his chin. “You mean a hospital?” 

“He means a charity shop, dickhead,” says Sirius. 

James laughs. “Yeah,” he says, going back to shaving. “Yeah, that won’t be happening.” 

“It’s either that, mate, or you rock up to the dance in your school uniform,” Remus says. “It’s your choice.” 

“Fuck you,” James says.

“I don’t know about you, but I want something that says sophisticated, but at the same time, incredibly slutty and available,” Sirius tells them. “Actually,” he adds, “I’m not all that bothered about sophisticated.”

* * *

They almost miss the bus, get on, trawl upstairs and into sticky seats, gum on the poles, graffiti on the windows.

Remus is ignoring them and listening to an iPod; Sirius's legs have appropriated half of Remus’s lap as he draws on the windows; James looks out the window. It’s all so green. He’s starting not to miss London so much.

Once the bus stops, Sirius gets up first, slaps James’s shoulder, says, “Come on, dipshit.” Their footsteps are thunderous, trundling down the stairs.

The streets are very cold and slippery and there are seagulls, old ladies walking little dogs, schoolkids making too much noise—them, the schoolkids. Sirius has been telling Remus that he’s got shit taste in music since they got on the bus.

They pass a small pub, a shoemakers’, a butcher, a bakery. James asks if there’s a candlestick maker anywhere. Remus is the only one who laughs.

The Red Cross shop is bigger than James expects, mannequins in ugly jumpers in the window. “Lame,” he says, as they wander in. There’s an angry-looking cat on the counter who Sirius greets by name, and apart from that, the shop seems empty. And dark. There are dusty lampshades and heavy picture frames, jewellery tangled on top of shopping racks, lots of purple–and–olive stained-glass windows keeping the light out and dinky, fake-glass chandeliers dangling in corners.

Remus is dicking around with golf clubs, Frank finds a Darth Vader costume and Sirius shoves on an array of hats and wigs. Peter is wearing a traffic cone.

James leans against a clothing rack that is definitely not strong enough to withstand his weight. “Why are we here, again?”

Sirius throws a pair of sunglasses at him. “I told you,” he says, putting on a false moustache, “we’re here to find some killer outfits.”

“Think that’s about as much facial hair as you’re ever going to get, mate,” Remus quips, looking through musty overcoats.

“Shut the fuck up,” Sirius tells him. “Jim?”

“OK,” James says, “let’s see what we’ve got to work with.”

After about an hour of them being twits and Sirius trying to see how many sparkly bangles he can stack on his arms before they get kicked out, they have suits: a deep purple, velvet blazer for Sirius; a smart, dark tweed for Remus that would be too long and large to fit anyone else; an old army uniform for Frank; and a child’s funeral suit for Peter. James finds a matching set of black dress pants and vest, deciding to go for rolled-up shirtsleeves instead of a formal suit jacket.

“So it’s not Armani,” he says, as they emerge into the slicing wind, “but it’ll do.”

“Pretentious git,” Frank says, all nice, shoving James on the arm, secretly very happy with his army uniform.

“Time for the booze,” James says. “Anyone have any bright ideas?”

“I’ve got a plan,” Sirius tells him.

It turns out Sirius’s plan is to go in and ask for two bottles of vodka and then walk straight back out when the shopkeeper asks for an ID.

“Well, that was shit,” he says, lighting a cigarette.

“ _That_ ,” James says, “was your plan?”

“Nah,” he says, holding up a white bag, heavy with the sound of clinking bottles, “this was.”

“You bribed him?” James guesses.

“Nah, mate,” Sirius says, chucking James his wallet, “ _you_ bribed him.”

“Git,” he says, affectionately.

* * *

Once they’re back in the dorm, getting ready, James is lacing up his shoes, Sirius is having a shower, and the whole place smells of body spray, Remus complaining he’s going to have an asthma attack. Frank starts talking about home. James feels a pang in his chest.

“Where are you staying?” James asks Remus, trying to distract himself, as he finishes lacing his shoes. Frank, on the other side of the room, is helping Peter with his tie.

“Going back to Wales,” he says to James. “And I live in a two–bedroom cottage, so don’t even think about inviting yourself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” James winks at him, “but you could come stay with me any time.” He means it. “What about Sirius?” he asks.

Remus’s eyes flicker, like a lightbulb in a storm. He ducks his head, the breath in his chest hollowing out. “Sirius—Sirius’s family are a bunch of assholes.” 

“Then,” James says slowly, “where does he go over the holidays?”

“Nowhere. He stays here. Mrs. Evans has been taking him in since he was 14. That’s why he and Lily are so close.”

“Oh,” James says quietly. “Oh.” Then, brightly, smirking, “I wouldn’t mind spending a whole summer with Evans.”

Remus scoffs. “Keep it in your pants, mate.”

 

 

 

**_iii. it's a magnolia celebration_ **

**_to be attempted on a wednesday night_ **

It’s not bad. It’s an old hall, anyway, dark, wooden floors and tall ceilings and chandeliers with lightbulbs missing. There are speakers and the girls from Lily’s school whispering and a punch table with not much punch. He’s already a little drunk.

Snape’s talking to Lily. She’s smiling politely. James is very angry.

“Hurry up,” Remus tells James, shoves him.

James rolls his eyes. “I’ll be right back,” he tells Sirius, who is talking to a girl.

“I don’t care,” Sirius tells him. James can tell he means it, which is nice.

He tries to keep himself upright on the way over, but he could keel because her hair is nice and down and she’s wearing a stupid, light blue dress and he’s thinking, _God, she must be cold_.

He pushes the sleeves of his shirt further up past his elbows, hand through his hair, sidles up behind her, whispers into her hair, which smells divine. “Hi.”

She nearly jumps, turns around, almost bumps into his chest. Her cheeks are very red. He is bloody happy to see her. “Hello, troublemaker,” she says. “What’ve you done this time?”

“Nothing, yet,” he tells her.

“What are you _doing_?” Snape nearly shouts at him.

“Fuck, are you still here, Snivelly?” James asks, look at him. “Jesus, mate, you could’ve dressed for the occasion.” Lily is trying not to laugh. Snape stalks off in a huff, promising Lily he’ll be back. James knows he won’t.

“Dance with me, Evans?” he asks Lily.

She huffs, smiling. “What do I get if I do?”

This confuses him. “Pleasure of my company?” he tries.

“Dismal,” she says, placing her hand in his, “but, sure.”

* * *

His hand easily eclipses the right side of her waist and she is quite small to him and she is smiling despite trying very hard not to, and he is starting to think this is a very, very bad idea.

On the other side of the room, Frank, Peter and Remus are making mad hand gestures at him. He thinks this means he should get closer to her, or take her outside. Both.

He leans in, nose brushing the conch of her ear. “You’re looking a bit pink, Evans,” he tells her.

“Observant,” she tells him, treading on his left foot on purpose.

He stops, presses his thumb against the hollow of her hipbone. She shakes.

“Need some air?” he says.

She hiccups. “Yep.”

* * *

“Explain yourself, Potter.”

“Wish I could, Evans.” He’s an eight-year-old with a crush. They sit down on a purple loveseat and he’s aching to kiss her.

“Don’t be a dickhead,” she tells him, tucking her legs up beneath her.

“Sorry,” he says, bending left ankle over right knee. “Force of habit.”

He leans in then, abrupt, hand over the delicate bone of her jaw, like a bird skeleton, she is.

“Hey,” she says, gently pressing him away.

“S’matter, Evans? Reckon you can’t resist me,” he says.

“Can too,” she insists.

“Are you gay?” he asks.

She seems pensive. “A little bit,” she says. “Aren’t we all?” 

“True,” he says, thinking of Sirius.

She bites her lip. “I go back to school tomorrow, but I’ll be back in two weeks. Can I—” she clears her throat, as if she’s surprising everyone, especially herself, like she can’t believe what she’s doing, why it’s taking her so long. This is not very much of a game anymore. “Can I see you then?”

“Absolutely,” he breathes, leans over and kisses her on the cheek. Her eyes linger as they pull apart, drowsy, pollen-drunk bee bumping into poppy heads.

“Jim,” she tells him, “promise me you won’t fry my head.”

“I won’t,” he tells her, “if you don’t poach my heart.”

“Deal,” she says.

He walks her back to the door, leaves her there. “I’ll see you then, Evans.”

* * *

When he gets back into the hall, Sirius has got a girl on his lap.

“Nice, mate,” James says, getting into the seat beside to him.

The girl gets off Sirius’s lap—he winks at her, and she saunters over to Evans, dog-with-a-bone pleased. 

“So,” James starts, “no-one saw us. We might have to up the ante.”

“Don’t want to hear it, mate,” Sirius tells him. “You want to whine about Evans? Go talk to Remus.”

“What’s this?” Remus asks, sitting down across from them, joined by Frank and Peter.

“Evans,” James tells him.

“Ah,” Remus says, “is operation Lily underway?” 

“Not yet,” James says, looking down, thumb-fiddling. It’s all a bad idea. 

“Shame,” Remus commiserates.

“Isn’t it ironic,” James starts slowly, looking up from his hands, “that my ticket out of here might just be reason I want to stay?”

Everyone gives him a sobering look.

“One of the reasons,” James mumbles.

Frank is telling him not to go soft on them now when _Bohemian Rhapsody_ comes on, and everyone is up and screaming like a car crash, a lot of sweaty hands and sharp elbows, and James is looking to Lily, looking to the boys, because it’s all he’s been doing for the past two weeks.

And the lyrics are down the throats of very drunk boys, and James is yelling for his mother like has been since he can’t call for his Dad, and he finally sees Lily across the room, smiling nice for him, and he thinks, _bloody hell, how could I have got it so wrong?_  

 

 

 

**_iv. her arms were folded most indignant_ **

**_not looking like she was soon to leave_ **

Sirius won’t look at Mrs. Evans. She wants to know what happened and it’s a bit like describing a crime scene, like somebody’s died. Peter’s got his head in his hands because he’s about to throw up and James is desperately glad that he’s here being a git instead of on his Mum’s couch being a boy without a father. 

“I’m sorry,” Sirius starts, strange that he’s sorry, because he never really is, “we just got a bit carried away.”

Remus, who can drink 24 shots without feeling the slightest bit drunk (“It’s a height thing, I swear,” Sirius had said to James that morning), is conspicuously absent.

“Well, as I understand it,” Mrs. Evans starts—James sees Sirius clench his eyes shut, like if he can’t see the disappointment on her face it won’t be there. James knows what that feels like, has done it before to his Mum. Stupid boys. They are stupid boys, “Peter got _completely_ carried away by two of the teachers as he lay in a pool of his own vomit.”

“Actually,” Peter pipes up, squeaking, “it was Sirius’s vomit, Miss, I was just… lying in it.”

She is visibly distressed. James remembers being on a table at one point. “I expected better of you, boys,” she says. “You _know_ the values we uphold here. And,” she continues, looking at James, who’s seething—he can’t handle another woman’s disappointment, has been trying and failing to carry his Mum’s for years, “as for you, James, I don’t know whether to be happy that you’ve finally made some friends here or furious that you’ve led them astray. Dismissed.”

Sirius grabs his kit, storms out—Peter shuffles to the bathroom stalls to be sick one more time before joining him.

Mrs. Evans stops James. “Not you, Mr. Potter,” she says.

He turns around. The light coming in through the high windows is too bright, too cutty. He wants very much to go back to bed.

“I gave your mother my word that I’d try to help you,” she tells him.

He doesn’t want to hear about his mother right now. “Don’t need your help,” he mumbles, sick.

“But,” she continues, and there’s a trip in her voice, like a string snapping, “I will be honest, you’re making it very difficult.”

He draws on his lip and the inside of his mouth, hard. His head is hammering, he’s had a gut full; he wants to yell at her, _my Dad_ died, _Miss, don’t you get it? He died and he’s not coming back and I don’t know what to do._

He feels her hand on his shoulder, looks up. She’s smiling softly at him, and he thinks he gets it. He thinks he gets it now. His Mum’s always been a bit too sad to help him. His Mum’s always been a bit too sad to be his Mum. 

She tells him that he’s cleverer and better than what he’s trying to be and he wants to believe her, waits until she’s finished, grabs his bag and heads outside. 

Sirius is there, leaning against a pillar, eyes closed against the sun like he’s trying not to be sick, and Peter, who has given up trying, vomiting into a bush.

“What did she want?” Sirius asks, not opening his eyes.

He’s floored and a little bit sick and can’t believe that they were waiting for him. That’s so awful of them, to be his mates. What rotten luck that he’s gotten stuck with people who do things like set him up with nice girls and wait for him outside locker rooms and he keeps trying to leave.

“Nothing,” he tells them, “just a lecture.”

“What a bitch,” Sirius deadpans, smiling as he pushes off the wall, slinging an arm over James’s shoulder, for balance. They can still hear Peter dry-retching into the rhododendrons.

* * *

It’s chickenshit, he thinks, that he grew up with a Dad who loved cricket, who made him love cricket, who got his lungs crushed on the M3.

He hasn’t picked up a bat in six years or run his hands over the nub of the ball stitching. And he knows that if his Dad knew he was playing, if his Dad were still alive, he would be here.

Snape puts him on the bench with Frank and Remus. Peter and Snape are the batting pair. They’ve already bowled. They’re losing. It’s a bit shit.

Peter throws up on the pitch and stumbles out to the bench, begs James to go out and bat.

Snape runs over to tell James that he’d rather bat by himself than with him.

“I’m playing,” James instantly tells the coach, gets up to test the weight of the bat. It’s cheap, what did he expect? Remus’s pads are the only ones long enough to fit his legs, so he pulls them on, nicks Sirius’s helmet and jogs out onto the pitch. 

He’s a bit five-years-old, a bit achy for his Dad’s arms around him and telling him to plant his feet, focus on the ball. He’s trying to focus on the ball. Is his Dad on the sidelines? No, he’s not, he reminds himself, he’s dead. He’s not cheering. He’s fucking dead. 

Snape, across the pitch, looks at him and tells him that he’s a waste of fucking space. 

James gets a six off the first ball.

* * *

Once they’ve won the match and he’s secured the captaincy from Snape, who looks like he’s been ripped a new asshole, he schedules three extra trainings a week, selects Sirius as his co-captain who does an absolutely shit job of co-captaining.

“Where are the orange slices?” he demands, at the first training.

“What orange slices?” Sirius asks.

“Fuck, Sirius, I _told_ you to get orange slices.”

“I’m not your co-captain.” 

“I literally gave you the badge last week,” James tells him. Sirius shrugs, puts on a pair of sunglasses. James didn’t know he owned sunglasses.

Remus, on the ground, says, “It’s in the bulletin, mate.”

Sirius gets up, snatches the bulletin from Remus, skims it, says “Hmm,” and tears it in half.

“Not your co-captain anymore,” he says to James, lying down on the bench.

“Brilliant,” James says. The fifth-years are starting to get restless. They’ve been here for a full 20 minutes. “Everyone, pick a buddy.”

“I will literally kill myself if we have to call each other ‘buddies’,” Remus tells him. 

“Stop attention-seeking,” Sirius says, from the bench.

Unbelievably, they make it through to the final.

 

 

 

**_v. and even if they were to find us_ **

**_i wouldn't notice, i'm completely occupied_ **

Peter slams open the door to the computer room. He’s halfway through an email to Mulciber, turns around in his chair. “Mate,” Peter breathes, clearly out of breath, “Lily’s waiting outside for you.” 

“One sec,” he says, biting his thumbnail.

In the hallway, Remus kicks the vending machine. “Remember,” he tells James, reaching down to grab his _Twirl_ , “and, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the point is to get caught.” He tears off the wrapper, bites into the chocolate bar, talks with his mouth full. “So try and stay close to school.” 

“Got it,” says James, a bit sick about the whole thing. “But,” Remus looks at him, choccy hanging out his mouth and eyebrows halfway up his forehead, “what about Sirius?”

Remus takes the _Twirl_ out of his mouth. “Don’t worry about him,” he says, soberly. “He’s spent every summer with her since he was 14. He just doesn’t want to see her get hurt.”

“What if,” James starts, Peter tugging at his elbow, “What if this doesn’t work?” _What if it does?_ he thinks. _What then?_

Remus shrugs. “Chances are it won’t. Whatever. I haven’t really thought that far.”

“Great,” James says, not meaning any part of it. “That’s really excellent.”

* * *

“Morning, Evans!” he calls out to her as he walks across the grounds, hand slinging a jacket like a gun. She is sitting on the hood of a car that is very nice and very not-hers.

“Nice to see you when you’re not pissed or sneaking into my bathroom, Jim,” she says. She’s got a sundress on. He feels like he’s just taken a ball going 160km/h to the stomach.

“Don’t count your chickens,” he manages weakly, kissing her on the cheek.

“Come on,” she says, standing up, tucking her hair behind her ears, which have gone red. “Let’s head off, shall we?”

“Actually,” he says, steering her around the waist, “I was thinking we could take a stroll around the grounds?” 

She gives him a look. “I didn’t borrow my friend’s car so we could take a _stroll around the grounds_ , dickface. Besides, do you want to get caught? Call me old-fashioned,” _Fuck_ , he thinks, _he’s so into this girl,_ “but I actually do quite like living.”

“Can’t argue with you there, Evans,” he says, getting in the passenger seat.

* * *

The car is a dying thing.

“Do you know how to drive a car?” he shouts, over the wind. Her hair is everywhere, like they’re underwater.

“Of course!” she yells back. The blush has migrated down her neck. “It’s not my fault Marlene’s car doesn’t work!”

“You ever thought about changing gears?” he hollers at her, likes that’s he’s screaming his lungs out at her in the wind.

She takes a hand off the wheel to punch him.

* * *

They’re sitting on a tartan blanket she brought, out at the beach, which he hasn’t seen in ages. The blue ocean is still a novelty to him when the water he knows is grey and silty and something he drives motorcycles into. He’s telling her the Thames story without knowing why. 

“Sorry,” he says, has been here for all of five minutes and is ready to cut his tummy open, spill his guts to her. He doesn’t think she’d mind. “I’m rambling.”

“I don’t mind,” she tells him, eyes the colour of lichen on slate tiles, pitch after rain.

“You do,” he says, knocking his shoulder against hers.

“No, I really don’t. I’m just thinking about how you can really take things the whole way sometimes and I don’t want to be on your bad side when you do.” 

“You could never be on my bad side,” he tells her. 

“That’s the thing—” she says. “You act like it, but I don’t think you have one, really.” 

“Evans,” he says quietly, the same way you’d say, “Stop.” His mind has eked out of the top of his head, like she’s bashed it in. He can’t describe how he feels about her without it sounding violent.

* * *

She takes him to the only pub in town, tells him to sit down at a table with a melted wax candle in a stubby holder. He’s quite blind for her, would follow her anywhere she asked. He wants to see her shoemaker, where she cries, where she buys her tea.

She comes over, puts a plate of buttered bread and chips down in front of him.

“Eat it,” she tells him. He knows that he’ll do it and that he doesn't want to. He knows that he does things for her without thinking. 

“OK,” he says, shoving it in his mouth. She watches him chew. 

“Good?” she asks.

“Yes,” he lies.

“Liar,” she tells him.

“Am not,” he insists.

Greedy boy, he knows he is. He kisses her, right then.

When he pulls away she looks shocked, like she can’t believe he’d do something so awful.

“Evans,” he says.

“Cheat,” she calls him.

He is. He’s a cheat and a liar and a fraud and all the things she’s ever called him. He’s an idiot who lies to girls he likes.

“I don’t want to blink when I’m with you,” she tells him. “I don’t want to miss anything.” 

He feels pained. The pub is too cold, the table too dark. He pashes her, then, to stop himself from making a balls-up, from telling her everything. He would ruin it all just to have a chance with her. 

* * *

He makes her drive on the way home, changes the gears for her.

 

 

 

_**vi. i'm unveiling the unexpected** _

When he gets in, his mind is firmly on Evans’ lips and the way she can’t drive a car and how she likes awful pub food, and he’s chucking down his stuff when he notices that all four of the boys are gathered around the window. It’s a bit like a ritual sacrifice. _Someone’s going to die, here,_ he thinks. 

He’s about to start blabbering, but then he sees the look on Sirius’s face. He doesn’t know how he hasn’t noticed it before, how terrifying he can be, and he’s wishing that he made more of an effort when he had him like he used to be, doesn’t understand how he couldn’t have appreciated meaning something good to him, because the way Sirius looks at him now—eyes red and mutinous, lips cutting a harsh line on his chin—he doesn’t know what he’s done, but he doesn’t think he’s ever going to get Sirius to look at him the way he used to again. He’d take anything over this. He’d take being called a shitdick over this. He’d take being dead.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

It’s Remus who answers. He’s got an utterly sickening smile on his face, holding a piece of crumpled paper in his hands, corners rolled at the edges like he does in nervousness, in anger. James feels like he’s been cut off at the legs, plunged into icy water. He’s on the roof again, he’s on the living room couch and his Mum is telling him his Dad’s been in a car accident. He still doesn’t know what’s going on.

“’ _Mulciber,’”_ Remus reads, still grinning that horrible, macabre smile, and James still doesn’t know. He’s never wanted to know so badly. He’s a smart boy even when he’s stupid, but he doesn’t know, and that might very well be the worst bit, but then he looks at Sirius’s face again and he thinks, _no, not the worst bit._  

“’ _You won’t believe what pussies these guys are. I’ve manipulated them into helping me get expelled but their plans are so shit that I think it might be another month before it goes anywhere. I think you used to know one of them, actually—Sirius Black? His parents disowned him because he’s such a fucking disgrace. I can’t stand being around them, it’s so embarrassing, but, even though it sucks to admit, I need them.’”_

Frank, who’s clenching his jaw, tries to take the piece of paper from Remus, but he holds it out of his grasp, like he’s determined to run this into the ground, he won’t let anyone else do it, has to let James know how badly he’s fucked it. And all of it, James thinks, is the cricket bat slamming into the back of his head when he was ten, the 17 stitches, his Mum crying. 

Remus continues, “’ _I have to keep pretending that I like them so they’ll help me, but I can’t fucking stand it. They’re so fucking retarded they’ll never realise, though. I’ll be out of this hovel by the end of term.’”_

“I didn’t—” James starts, but Remus’s head whips to him, like, _you didn’t_ what, _James?_ _How are you going to get yourself out of this one, don’t you know you’ve already lost us?_

“I didn’t write that,” James says, trying to galvanise his voice. “None of it.”

“It’s dated today,” Peter squeaks. “From your email address.”

“Where the fuck did you find it?”

“Taped to the door,” Frank says, his voice cracking. He sniffs.

Remus shoves the piece of paper against James’s chest with enough force to bruise, to knock him over. Remus has only ever utilised his full height twice in James’s presence; the first day he met him, and now, standing a few inches over him and bearing down, eyes searing, there can't be any room for dispute, James has ruined it and Remus wants him to know that. 

He strides out of the dorm. Frank and Peter follow suit. The door slams, James jumps. 

Sirius is left standing there.

“Why did you do that?” Sirius hisses, deceptively soft. The whites of his eyes are pink, pupils wild, chest cracking in hollow breaths, hands fisted at his sides. Jaw gritted, and there’s a twitch in his nose that he doesn’t seem to be able to control.

James is affronted. “You don’t really fucking believe that I _actually_ wrote this.”

“You tell me,” Sirius says coldly.

“I _didn’t_ ,” James insists.

“You fucking _did!”_ Sirius spits. “You fucking _did_ , you shit! All they were trying to do was make things a little simpler for you and I didn’t even fucking _want_ to! Because you’re a piece of shit! You’re such a piece of shit and I can’t ever believe I ever fucking trusted you! I—”

He stops, about to throw a punch, James can tell, and he’s about to let him. Then Remus opens the door and Sirius stops stopping.

It lands him in the jaw and he does down, Sirius punching the shit out of him; blows, it seems, for every discrepancy in James’s life. Strawberry jam on the walls at his 4th birthday, breaking the dining room window playing cricket, expulsion at 12, cracking the windshield of his Mum’s first boyfriend’s car at 15, driving the motorcycle of the third’s into the Thames. Feeling like he had these guys and not knowing that he should’ve been working harder to keep them since Sirius first called him a shitdick on the second day.

There are welts going up on his cheeks and black blossoming on his eyes and blood in his mouth, but then Remus says, “Sirius,” and it stops, and Sirius stands up, lands a feeble kick to James’s stomach, and walks out the door.

* * *

He doesn’t know about the email to Lily until he knocks on her door, but when she opens it, it’s all over her— _Mulciber all I have to do is fuck the headmistress’s daughter she seems like a real slut it should be easy I’ll tell you about it when I get home I fucking_ —and she slams the door in his face.

* * *

He can’t stay in the dorm. There’s a stain from his blood on the carpet that won’t come out and he can’t sleep when he can feel Sirius, a bed away, hatred and betrayal on him and it’s a terrible smell, Remus makes him feel like he’s not there, like he’s a part of the wall and it kills him, Frank is being polite, like he’s a stranger, and Peter won’t look at him.

So he can’t stay in the dorm. He leaves whenever he can, and tonight, he goes to the Cook’s sitting room.

On the phone, he’s trying to talk to Mulciber, who’s piss drunk. He’s playing with his Zippo lighter, engraved with his name, and listening to Mulciber slurring his words and telling him about how he accidentally crashed his car into some guy’s fence, and James thinks, _I haven’t got any mates._

“Sorry, I’ve got to go,” he says, and hangs up.

He flicks the lighter on, off, sits there staring at the flames until he hears footsteps and flinches so hard he drops the bloody thing, and the hard, sweaty carpet goes up like an oily rag.

“ _Fucking shit_ ,” he whispers, trying to put it out, stamping the shit out of the flames until he’s sure it’s dead, sprints back to the dorm like he’s being followed, shoves into bed and hears his own footsteps thundering around the cave of his head.

He’s half asleep when he hears the splint, gets up and looks out the window.

He’s set the Cook’s sitting room on fire.

“Sirius,” he hisses, calling for the first person who comes to mind, runs to his bed and starts shaking him awake, and it’s only because he’s asleep that he doesn’t try to punch James out again.

“Get up, mate,” he whispers.

“Fucking hell, Jim,” Sirius mumbles, rolling over, “the fuck have you done now?’

“Get up, mate! I swear it was a fucking accident, I didn’t mean to—” 

Sirius falls out of bed. James drags him over to the window.

“ _Jesus, Mary and Joseph, James, you’re a fucking psycho!”_

“You have to help me get everyone out of bed,” James tells him, and there’s an awful second where he thinks that Sirius is about to say _no_ , but then he’s jumping on Peter and Frank and Remus’s bed, and James grabs his cricket bat, runs out into the hall, and smashes the fire alarm. 

He’s in every fucking dorm, mouthing off to everyone that they’re about to fucking die if they don’t get up and get dressed and get out, shoves slippers onto the feet of a first year who says that they don’t belong to him, sprints down every flight of stairs and hammers on every door.

The quad is fucking freezing. There are fire engines and policeman and James feels his clothes soaked in water and mud up his nose and his Mum looking at him like she doesn’t fucking know him anymore, and Mrs. Evans is calling out names; Sirius, Alastair, Richard, Michael, John D., Thomas, Samuel, Oliver, John H., Ethan, Trevor. He sees Lily standing next to her Mum, shivering in a pair of pink pyjamas patterned with grey cats. 

Mrs. Evans is asking where Remus is and no-one knows.

“Come on, boys,” she says, looking at Sirius, “who was the last one to see Remus?” 

James is about to throw up.

He’s running before thinking that he should, grabbing the keys to his Mum’s boyfriend’s bike and thinking, _this is the best idea I’ve ever had_ , Remus’s name stuck under his tongue and Sirius is behind him, Lily is screaming at him to _stop, James, come back, you idiot,_ and someone crying, maybe it’s James, maybe it’s everyone, and James is out of his mind, up in the air and he’s on the roof, Remus is holding his Dad’s photograph and helping him even though he is smart enough to know he shouldn’t, he’s smarter than all of them, he’s smiling his rictus grin and looking at James like he is the worst decision he’s ever made. There are policeman, the kind of policeman who drag you out of rivers and cinch onto your forearms and tell your Mum to do something about you. James is thinking about how needs to return Remus’s cricket pads. There’s smoke in his eyes and nose and throat and head and he feels very sick, and he runs into the sitting room, bangs his foot and shin and hip on armchairs and tables and things that he doesn’t remember seeing in this room, but everything is draped in a film that makes it hard to see, and he’s coughing up a lung, a kidney, his heart. He bangs on the silver door and lifts the latch and throws it open, finds Remus’s hands before anything else, and drags him out.

* * *

For some reason people are thanking him. He wants to tell them not to.

He’s halfway up the stairs when an arm reaches out and tugs him into an alcove. Lily’s waist knocks into his and he’s bearing down on her, looking at her, and thinking about windows and cold pubs and cars in the wind.

“I believe this is yours,” she says, banal, holding out his lighter, licking her lips like they’re sour.

He doesn’t say anything, isn’t sure what he would if his lungs weren’t still acrid and spongy.

“ _You could’ve—_ ” she hisses, “you could’ve _killed_ us.” 

“I thought I put it out,” he says. 

“James—” 

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, is about to reach for her but pulls his hands back. _Don’t use those again_ , he tells himself. “I heard someone coming and I thought I put it out. I swear.”

She gives him a look, and her wants her to know. “I wish—” he starts. What does he wish? Wishes he never came here, that his Dad wasn’t dead, that he’d been better from the start, wishes he tried harder, that his head wasn’t still full of Thames water because then maybe he’d think straight enough to not fuck up every good thing that ever happens to him. He wishes he didn’t wreck things so easily. He wishes she’d look at him.

“I wish I hadn’t done it,” he tells her.

She finally looks up. 

“I wish you hadn’t done it too,” she says, hands him the lighter, and walks off.

* * *

He’s not quite awake. He’s not quite anywhere. He feels the chair beneath him but only half of him is there in the hall, and it’s sunny despite everything. The tiles are cold. He wants his Mum.

Mrs. Evans is talking and it’s about the fire and how someone knows what happened and they’re sitting in this room and that it wasn’t an accident even though he knows it was and he knows it was him and he could suffer legal consequences and he has until the end of the day to come forward.

He wants his Mum. He wants his Dad.

* * *

He starts writing letters.

He never used to do that, before. But they’re real and his and even if you’re good at forgery, they’re harder to fake.

He writes three in total.

* * *

_Evans,_

_By now you know what a complete and utter twat I am, but the thing is, I’m not a twat enough to squander someone like you. I know a lot of things—the highest number of runs ever scored in an over (most people think it’s 36, but it’s actually 77), how to boil a decent egg, that you think I’m a liar. I am in most cases, but not this one, because I_ promise _you that I never wrote that email. Here is the thing: you are honest, and lovely, and true and so, so good. Way too good for me. Even if I tried for the rest of my life I don’t think I’d deserve someone as good as you, why I guess is why it makes sense for me to start trying now._

_And despite being a complete and utter twat, I’m learning. That’s why I’m going to tell your Mum about the fire and go back to London. I don’t want to leave, and I definitely don’t want to leave you, but I reckon it’s pretty clear that it’s the best thing for the school._

_I would never intentionally hurt you, Evans, and it’s true that, for a while, you were my ticket out of here, but then I got to know you. And it’s pretty clear that you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, even if you can’t drive a bloody car._

_I bloody love you, and I’m sorry._

_Jim._

* * *

He puts the lighter on her desk and he’s trying not to cry.

“It’s what I used to start it,” he tells her. “I swear to God, it was an accident, and I thought I’d put it out. Obviously not.”

“Oh, James,” she says, sorrowful and hurting and _God he wants his Mum right now._

“You realise,” she tells him slowly, “what this means, don’t you?”

He swallows, nods. “Will I be expelled?”

“The honour court will decide that,” she says. “But I presume you know that it’s just a formality at this point.” 

He goes to leave, stops himself. “I want you to know, Miss,” he starts, “that I gave it my best shot; making things work here. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone, least of all you.” She nods, and he rubs the underside of his nose with the back of his hand, doesn’t want to start crying in her office. “And, um,” he starts, hand in the back of the hair, rubbing forwards, “I know I’m the last person to be asking for favours, but, ah, do you think you’d be able to give this to Lily for me?”

The look on her face tells him that she knows, and he thinks, _Of course she does. How could she not?_

* * *

He runs into Sirius on the way out.

“Told her it was me,” he says, because Sirius won’t stop to look at him. “I’m going to go before the Honour Court and then I’ll be out of here.”

Sirius gives him a truly awful look. James has been on the receiving end of a lot of looks, recently, ones that he knows he won’t forget for a long time.

“Congrats,” Sirius spits, bitter and snide and James has the gut urge to run. “You finally got what you wanted.”

“I don’t _want_ —”

“ _Give it a fucking rest_ ,” Sirius snaps, turns sharply to leave.

James tries to grab him, Sirius shoves. When James presses the letter against his chest, Sirius picks it up, gives it a quick glance, balls it into a fist, leaves it on the floor. James stares at it as Sirius’s footsteps recede.

He turns to face the wall, and that’s when he notices the picture.

 

 

 

**_vii. but she’s never been the kind to be hollowed by the stares_ **

**_[...] but you’re daft to think she’d care_ **

He definitely shouldn’t be defacing school property at this point, but the way he sees it, the picture belongs to him.

He’s sitting with it, in the hall, tracing the outline of his Dad’s face over and over, at the forefront of the cricket team a good 30 or so years ago, the shape of his bat. Same jaw, same eyes. He can see why Remus thought they were the same person.

* * *

She comes to find him, letter in hand, because he’s right—he is a complete and utter twat, but she also knows him stupidly well by this point, mannerisms and habits, and she knows he didn’t write the email. He’s too good. He’s _painfully_ good and it hurts her, because he thinks he isn’t and, truth be told, he isn’t always, but she doesn’t think that’s his fault.

He’s hunched over something, she’s not sure what, and she says, “I’ve been trying to find you,” and he turns around, eyes shiny with tears, face blotchy and nostrils flaring because he’s trying not to cry and doesn’t want her to see him fail.

“Hi,” he sniffs.

“Thought we had a deal,” she tells him.

“What?”

“That you wouldn’t fry my head.”

“Ah,” he says, looking down. “But you poached my heart, Evans.” He presses the back of a hand against his mouth, stifles a cry. “I really fucked that one, didn’t I?” 

She sits down next to him, hand along his back. It’s ridiculous how much she likes this boy.

“Anyway,” he says. “If there’s a moral to this, reckon I found it.” 

It looks like him, in the picture. “Is that—?” 

“It’s my Dad,” he says. “He went to this school, and I didn’t—I didn’t know—” 

She leans over, kisses his cheeks and then he’s crying, wetting the glass. “ _I didn’t know he came here_ ,” he whispers. She holds him against her and he cries. She’s trying to hold onto him and he cries.

Her knees are tucked up under her bum, dress scrunched. The loveseat is still purple. 

 

 

 

**_viii. that you would rather be beside than in front of_ **

When Sirius gets in, they’re having a fucking fit. Remus is shouting and Peter is pointing at a piece of paper and Frank is more worked up than he’s ever seen him.

“Oi,” he says, shoving down onto the bed, next to Remus. “He’s confessed. The Honour Court’s happening this arvo.” 

“That’s bloody brave,” Frank says.

“And really fucking stupid,” Remus adds. 

“Why? What d’you mean?” 

“Guess what I’ve discovered,” Remus says, look in his eye that Sirius knows too well, same as when they play chess and he’s figured out the winning move, same as when Sirius is doing a crossword and has to ask for his help.

 

 

 

_**ix. suddenly embarrassed and corrected** _

Snape is being a dick again, as usual.

“It is,” he says, sneering, and James wants to punch him, “with great regret and sadness, that we call the Honour Court to session.”

Everyone’s there, except for the four people he really wants to see. The few chairs sit unoccupied in the corner of the room.

* * *

“The emails?” Frank starts. “They were sent at 11:40 in the morning. But—” 

“He left the computer room a few minutes after 11:00,” Remus says. “I went for my 11:00 _Twirl_ with Pete, who told him that Evans was waiting. He left straight away.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sirius whispers. 

“So,” Remus continues, looking like they all feel, like a bunch of complete and utter twats, “I was able to access the keystroke order of the root file—”

“Of course,” Frank says, sitting forward on his knees. 

“—to find out who else was logged on at the same time. And guess who the only other person was.”

Sirius grinds his jaw. “Who?” he asks.

* * *

“It is our duty to understand the insidious forces that drove this—”

“Severus,” Mrs. Evans interrupts. “Might I remind you that the Honour Court is no place for your personal grandstanding and that Mr. Potter has a right to speak in his own defence before the court, as a whole, passes judgement?”

James grins. “Thank you, Mrs. Evans,” he says, standing up. “Look, I’m—I’m not going to insult everyone here by trying to defend myself. I’ve done a pretty top job of messing things up.” He takes a steady breath, and as he does, Sirius, Remus, Frank and Peter file in. His gut reflex is fortification, even though they hate him, now, he has to remind himself, but God, he’s happy to see them.

“I apologise profusely,” he continues. “But I’m so grateful to you all. Despite my numerous attempts to get out of this school, it’s only now that I realise how much I want to stay. I’ve learnt so much from being here, and being with all of you, and, in some ways, being with my Dad, who I found out recently was actually a student here.”

“Fucking hell,” Sirius whispers.

“I’ve—I’ve had a pretty big hole in my life for the past six years, but, um…” He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, “somehow, being here, it’s slowly started to heal.”

There’s a gaping silence before Snape stands up. “The court will heretofore disregard the previous statement. Now, perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, we can begin the real business. Tell us, in your own words, where you were on the aforementioned evening of—”

“For goodness sake, Severus,” Mrs. Evans says, head in her hands, “who else’s words do you expect him to use?” Snape stops, glares, as Mrs. Evans tells him, “Just leave this to me.” He sits down, face red.

“James,” Mrs. Evans starts, “were you in the Cook’s sitting room, on the night of the fire?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Were you there with permission?” 

People are whispering, he notices, in the back of the hall. “No,” he says, catching Sirius’s eye, “I wasn’t.” 

Snape’s telling the boys to shut up and Mrs. Evans is asking James if he intended on starting the fire and he’s staring at Sirius, at the boys.

“No,” he says, vaguely, “not really.”

“Objection!” Snape snaps, “Do you mean _yes_ or _no_ , Potter?”

“ _Severus,_ ” the headmistress chastises. The whispers are spreading, a bit like a fire, a bit like this.

“It means no,” James says, slowly and deliberately, glaring at Snape. “I had no intention of starting a fire.”

The whispers have reached the first years. He’s getting distracted. 

“Was anyone else with you?” Mrs. Evans wants to know.

“No,” James tells her, “not that I know of.”

“I was,” Sirius says, loudly and clearly, getting out of his seat.

“I was,” says Remus, also standing. 

“I was.” Frank and Peter.

“I was.” Richard from Fourth Year, John H., Alastair, Oliver, Trevor. Thomas, Chris, a first year he doesn’t know, too many to count, everyone getting up at the same time.

Snape is screaming at people to sit down, everyone else clamouring to tell Mrs. Evans that they were there, they were with James. Sirius is grinning at him. James can’t breathe much.

The first years are jostling each other, until the last one squeaks out, “I was!” 

“This is _ridiculous_!” Snape yells. “What on Earth are you all doing? You’re all bloody lying. They’re lying, Mrs. Evans.”

“Severus,” Mrs. Evans intones.

“It’s a conspiracy! You can’t expel the whole bloody year and they _know that._ ”

“Be quiet, Severus!” Mrs. Evans says, gavel on the sound block. “Sit down, everyone.”

Snape isn’t shutting up. James can’t stop smiling. “It’s a black–and–white case! Expulsion is the obvious course of action. He set fire to the whole bloody school! We could’ve died! He just strutted in there, lighter at the ready, and tried to burn the whole thing down!”

“Lighter?” says one of the year sevens.

“Not now, Macnair,” Snape spits.

“What lighter, Snape?”

“Jesus, Avery, how thick must you be? That ridiculous Zippo lighter of his. It’s engraved with his name! He left the stupid thing behind, for God’s sake!”

 _Fuck_ , James thinks.

“But,” Macnair continues, “how do you know that, mate? No-one’s mentioned a lighter.”

Snape is realising that he’s fucked up and is scrambling. James is thinking about how he set fire to a room he didn’t set fire to. 

“They have,” Snape is insisting.

“Actually, mate,” Macnair tells him, “they haven’t.”

Mrs. Evans looks at Snape. “I have to second Walden’s question, Severus. How did you know about that lighter?”

“I—” Snape is stuttering.

James’s heart does a leap-frog up his throat and he’s talking before he realises what he’s doing. “Evans found the lighter before anyone else did. How could you know about it unless—unless you were there?”

Snape eyes are trying to sluice holes into James and he’s trying to talk about how he refuses to sit here and listen to James’s wild allegations but James is on a fucking roll. _I didn’t do it I didn’t do it it wasn’t me_ —

“I _had_ put it out,” he says. “And I heard footsteps—it’s why I left. It was you, wasn’t it, Snivelly? And I dropped the lighter—holy shit, it _was_ you. You restarted the fire, didn’t you?”

There’s a lot of talk, just now. It’s a bit much, really, a bit you just found out your Dad died and here is a nice policeman, a bit girl in a pub with a nice haircut and cold chips, a bit courtroom case for a fire you didn’t start.

“ _Holy shit_ … I think I’m innocent.”

“You’re _not!”_ Snape, for some reason James can’t remember, is out of his seat now, in his face, greasy rotten boy who likes to start fires for boys with no fathers. James is up, too, and Snape is spitting in his face, “You fucking _wanker_! You’ve destroyed this school! You’ve ruined everything!” And James is thinking that this is a bit stupid, that he shouldn’t be laughing, but he is, and Snape is screeching, “You fucking _started_ it! _I only finished what you started!”_

The headmistress is up and James is sitting down and Snape is storming out of the room but James isn’t thinking very much of it all, because Sirius is running towards him, Remus and the boys right behind him and they’re all hanging onto him and he can’t tell who's arms are around him or who’s ruffling his hair and James is fucking crushed because they’re there and they don’t hate him and _holy shit,_ he’s thinking, _I’m so glad I came here. Imagine if I hadn’t_. 

“You’re a twat,” Sirius tells him.

“Yep,” James agrees, because it’s true. He wants more things to be true so Sirius will believe them.

 

 

 

_**x. fools on parade** _

_**conduct a sing-along** _

They win the cricket final. Snape gets expelled and James doesn’t and it’s OK. The whole thing isn’t very much at once, because it’s cricket and it’s not soccer or rugby or hockey or something else, it’s very much a headache and sitting around while your knees are sore and your neck is burnt because you forgot to apply sunscreen there. There are scones and soggy sandwiches and tea that Sirius will spike with vodka from his own flask if you give him cigarettes. 

It’s a lot of not very much until the end where the last runs are critical and he’s thinking about how he prefers to bowl, batting was always his Dad’s thing, anyway. There’s a lot of screaming in the last innings and Lily marching across the grass and saying, “You brilliant boy,” before pashing him on the mouth, Sirius knocking a cricket ball into a rich lady’s champagne glass and they are all very lucky for not being expelled.

He doesn’t notice his Mum until she’s looking at him, and then he’s running towards her and _saying mum mum it’s my mum it’s my mum_.

He manages to lift her up, not remembering being this strong or this tall and realising suddenly that everything he ever is or was or will be will always be measured against his Mum, so he wasn’t this tall until she held him, he wasn’t this himself until he was in her arms again. He’s crying a bit, saying sorry while she’s telling him it’s OK. He’s telling her it isn’t, that ever since they pulled him out of the Thames he’s wanted to take it all back, that it’s _never_ been her fault and that he’s an idiot.

“Did I do the right thing?” she wants to know.

“Yes,” he tells her, toddler with a macaroni graph, _did you know Dad came here did you know he was captain of the cricket team did you know I look so much like him that people keep getting us confused?_

He’s happy to see her, Sirius introducing himself as James’s girlfriend and Lily stepping hard on Sirius’s foot. He might have heatstroke, definitely feels it when Lily looks at him and he reckons she’s given it to him from the get-go, the rabid heartbeat and red skin and fainting. 

He likes that he came here with one girl and friends that weren’t really his friends, and now he has two girls and the best mates he could ever ask for. He thinks his Dad would be proud. He looks at the lot of them and he knows his Dad would be proud.


End file.
